A Lot Going On Upstairs
by BipolarMolar
Summary: "Your lot have been away from God for too long. Strayed too far away from the light. The angels have lost the love. It shouldn't be like this. It never used to be like this." Fill for a kinkmeme prompt. Crowley finds out Heaven's punishments for disobedient angels is worse than he could have imagined. References to torture.


It had been a long time, but they were finally here. From the moment he'd first stood on two feet, feeling his scales recede and a new breeze rippling his hair, he'd caught sight of that silly little angel, all big eyes and naive righteousness, and something had warmed inside him. The fact that the angel, this angel, had looked upon him without fear, had spoken to him and even laughed at Crowley's joke before he remembered himself and his smile dropped...it had been different. And he'd given away his sword! Crowley could hardly believe it. He'd know, even then, that this one was Special. He hadn't known he'd dedicate his existence to spending time with him, just how much Aziraphale would come to mean to him.

Even stopping time itself and averting a six million year old prophecy had seemed reasonable, if the alternative was never being able to see Aziraphale again.

He'd turned his back on his own kind, his own creator but this was his prize. And as Aziraphale snuggled up to him in bed, he felt like he could go and do it all again, if he had to.

After the excitement of averting the apocalypse, Aziraphale had wanted to get out of London, so they'd found a little cottage by the South Downs. They'd spend their days exploring the valleys, walking along the chalk hills, Aziraphale cooing with excitement whenever they happened upon the wildlife, a deer or rabbit, which was often. Crowley would cultivate their garden, Aziraphale would read, sometimes pop to his SoHo bookshop and miraculously back in time for tea. The nights were Crowley's favourite though. Because even on lazy days, when he lounged on the sofa, his head on Aziraphale's lap, listening to the angel read aloud, murmur out snippets of whatever words held his interest at that point, he never felt as close to him as he did in the night. Aziraphale would give him that look, the look Crowley couldn't quite describe, but he knew it when he saw it. The look like Crowley was a particularly succulent-looking cream cake and it was only a matter of when, not if, Aziraphale was going to bite into him. And Crowley would shuck his clothes as easily as he could, jump into bed, Aziraphale would turn off the lights and...ecstasy. An eternity with this creature.

Of course, they had to go by Aziraphale's pace, Crowley told himself he would. Perhaps it was foolish but a part of him still stung from the many rejections he'd received from the angel over the years, and a fear he had was that one day, he'd push too far and Aziraphale would take flight. Their love-making was evidence of this. It had to be Aziraphale's way or no way at all. This was fine. It was still better than anything he could have hoped for. But. He wished Aziraphale wouldn't push his hands away when he reached for him in the darkness. Wished he could let both hands have free reign of Aziraphale's body, rather than "this bit here".

As they lay, watching the dawn rise in the bay window, they were reminiscing about the last six thousand years. Perhaps not Crowley's favourite thing to do, memories of the past, Aziraphale rejecting his friendship, time and time again, made his fingers curl under the covers, hiding the surging self-loathing but it was worth it bathe in Aziraphale's smile, hear his giggling laughter and see the faraway look in his eyes.

"And the bastille! Oh, I was so foolish. Me and my sweet tooth, it's got me into trouble before!"

"Yeah, and you couldn't use any miracles. What, did Gabriel somehow put a lock on it or something? Our lot don't do that,"

Crowley would think back on this moment and recall the way something shuttered in Aziraphale's eyes, dimming their light. He didn't notice it at the time though, and missed the faint tremble in his lover's voice. "N-no, they wouldn't do that. I don't think he could. But, the warning of another reprimand was enough. When I switched clothes with the executioner, you were in proximity with me, so that would have stopped them from sensing my miracle. And it _was_ only a little one."

Crowley actually sat back in the bed so he could get a better look at Aziraphale's face. This long and he was still discovering new truths about him. "You're that scared of a rude note? Those humans were going to chop your head off. You would have had to go to the main office anyway to get a new corporation."

"Yes, yes, I know-" Crowley caught it this time, the flush of pink staining Aziraphale's cheeks, the way he ducked his head but frowned, both abashed and annoyed at the same time. Ruffled. It bothered Crowley more than he cared to admit, but then, he was a demon and this was his way. Pushing and teasing, needling and testing. To get what he wanted. And what he wanted, at that moment, were answers.

"Why are you afraid of Gabriel? He's a pathetic little…" He trailed off. Alright, the angels weren't quite as lovey-dovey as he remembered from his time in Heaven, he'd realised that when he'd been forced to stand in hellfire, wearing Aziraphale's face. But then, they'd thought Aziraphale was a traitor and they were rattled that the armageddon was now armagedidn't-happen so they'd had to take drastic measures. But this, Aziraphale's quiet compliance to Gabriel's rules. The Aziraphale _he_ knew was the one who gave away a piece of supernatural weaponry to a couple of dumb humans, the one who performed frivolous miracles and would risk revolutionary France just for some crepes. So why the fear?

"So, he reprimanded you. Why...why is that- why were you so…"

_Don't say afraid, don't say afraid._

"-afraid-" _Damn._ "-of that?"

Aziraphale drew the covers around his bare chest like a bird drawing its wings around its body. "I- I've never liked pain. I mean, who does? But, you know." 

PAIN. Not a word unfamiliar to Crowley but it sounded wrong on the angel's lips. "Pain?"

"Yes, the - the caning. It hurts. It's supposed to."

Sometimes, when you repeat a word over and over, it loses all meaning. _Caningcaningcaningcaning_ echoed through his head, in a flawless rendition of the angel's musical voice, and it took a couple of minutes of the two of them sitting in silence before the meaning crashed down on Crowley's shoulders and he actually_ flinched._

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm. Partly to reassure himself that this wasn't some ghastly nightmare but partly to reassure himself that Aziraphale was there, warm, solid, unmarked. Perfect and unharmed. Now that he thought about it, Aziraphale had always insisted on having the lights out when he disrobed.

Now, Crowley was seizing him, grabbing him the way he would in the night and they'd had too much wine, but this was dawn, not the dead of night, and he was stone cold sober and his hands weren't there to claim and pull pleasure from Aziraphale's mouth, they were there to discover. And if there was one thing Crowley was good at finding, it was pain.

His fingers evaded Aziraphale's dismissive brush of his arm, and landed clean on a bump on the angel's back. He traced the bump, to find it grew into a long, thick line, running diagonally from one shoulder blade to just under his ribs.

"Gabriel was not happy that day."

"You couldn't heal it?" he asked dumbly.

"Healing yourself is frowned upon. You're supposed to let the message sink in, you can't do that if, five minutes later, you feel fine."

Aziraphale's skin crawled under his fingers. Now that he felt it, the scar wasn't alone, although it was the thickest. A network of thin, poker straight lines criss-crossed Aziraphale's back, wriggling like snakes beneath his fingers as Aziraphale breathed. Most on his back, some on his buttocks, a particularly nasty one curling around one thigh. Crowley released him like it hurt to hold on.

Crowley floundered. He was reeling, the room didn't feel so steady. The only thing that still felt solid and reassuring was Aziraphale himself, but he couldn't bring himself to touch him again.

"Well, God still has those monthly meetings, right? With all the angels?"

Aziraphale, a little frostily, spoke. "I don't know how they ran things when you were wearing white and spinning constellations, but for your information, God doesn't speak to us anymore. Hasn't for a long time. I daresay She communicates with Michael, possibly Gabriel, through the Metatron, but that's like chinese whispers. Communication gets...muddied, you know? The last time She spoke to me personally was...well, it was just after you and I formally met, actually. Eden."

Crowley looked at him, aghast. "That long?," He cleared his head. "So when you say _reprimands_, what do you mean, exactly?"

"Corrective measures. The names of the...reprimands always sound rather innocuous," he said and tapped his own back, where the scar sat. "A strongly-worded note."

Some siren was going off in his brain. He felt remarkably stupid.

"So a _strongly worded note_ is a caning."

"Yes. At least it was only Gabriel. Sandalphon, he...scares me. Seems to like it _too much,_"

"And do you, do you have a lot of reprimands?"

"You're acting like you've never had to do them! I'm sure you were receiving reprimands every week, I know what you're like. Come on , Crowley, surely you've never had to take part in Bible Study? Or Prayer?"

"Bible study? Prayer? What are you-"

"You're supposed to pose like you're on the cross and they balance a bible on each hand. You stand there for however long they tell you to. And for prayer, they make you kneel on rice or beads. You wouldn't think it would hurt much, they're such little things but it's-" he laughed uneasily. "- surprisingly painful."

_No. No, I've never had to do that and you shouldn't have had to either,_ he thought. The tears started so suddenly, one second he was staring at Aziraphale's troubled face, the next, he was blinking through a glittering veil of tears.

"I didn't know," It seemed necessary that he say that, so he grabbed at Aziraphale blindly. Threw his arms around his neck. "I - I didn't - I'm sorry-"

"I suppose that explains why you were so blase about my reprimands," Aziraphale piped up, muffled against Crowley's shoulder. "It never fit in with what I knew about you, you were repulsed with Her for creating the Flood, letting children die. But when I'd mention my punishments, you never bat an eyelid."

Crowley sobbed guiltily, he was supposed to be comforting Aziraphale, protecting him. But here his angel was, running his fingers through Crowley's hair, murmuring reassuring things under his breath.

"Your lot have been away from God for too long. Strayed too far away from the light. The angels have lost the love. It shouldn't be like this. It_ never_ used to be like this." He said, not for his benefit, not even for Aziraphale but so, if some unseen force was listening, they would understand and take note.

Aziraphale clicked his teeth disapprovingly but he didn't stop stroking his lover's hair. "The angels love each other. But their love comes with discipline. I can't believe you're being so righteous, your kind has _literal monsters,_ a hellhound, for instance!"

"Heaven's love is more monstrous than anything devised in Hell!" Crowley spat. He immediately regretted speaking with such vehemence, but Aziraphale didn't seem affected. Perhaps he secretly felt vindicated, that Crowley was voicing things Aziraphale had only thought.

He lost track of time, but what did they need of human time anyway? He sat, and sobbed, and Aziraphale hugged him tightly, gently scratching Crowley's head with his fingers like you would to a treasured pet, and that placid affection made Crowley cry harder, but when he hugged him back, his fingers kept touching that vile scar and HOW THE FUCK HAD HE NEVER NOTICED IT BEFORE?

He wiped his eyes, steeling his resolve. Had to be strong for his angel."I'm gonna kill them. Discorporate them."

Aziraphale pressed warm hands to Crowley's chest, rubbing the skin reassuringly. "No, you're not," he sighed. "It's over, remember? We won. And they think that you're invulnerable to holy water and I can spit hellfire, remember? They've won't bother us, they've got bigger things to think about than you and I, my dear."

"So, they're just going to get away with it?" He hated how small his voice sounded. He hated that Aziraphale was right. He wanted, more than anything, to travel back in time and greet Aziraphale, tell him that he understood why he was so terrified of Heaven, of the angels and that everything would be alright because Aziraphale was going to be loved, loved so deeply and purely that even God's love would seem superficial in comparison. And that one day, Aziraphale would find himself in a small cottage in South Downs, with stacks of books and a garden and he'd never have to see Gabriel, or Uriel or any of the evil bastards ever again.

Aziraphale shrugged. "Maybe She'll try and get more involved with them in the future. Guided by Her love, they may change. But Heaven's not my problem anymore,"

Part of him knew Aziraphale was speaking the truth, but he felt full, uncomfortably filled with redundant anger, indignance so hot it was burning him from the inside, all he could do was let it grow cold within him. He pictured it as boiling magma roiling inside him, cooling to grey rock in the pit of his stomach.

Perhaps Aziraphale noticed his discomfort, because he pulled him closer.

"All the love I wanted," he whispered, lips brushing the hollow of Crowley's throat. "-was denied to me. Upstairs. I had this wonderful ability to love, I was _created_ to love, and I had nobody in the universe to share that with. But then there was you. _Us._ I'm happy, Crowley. Truly. We've both endured...unimaginable horror but this is our reward. Perhaps this is Her way of apologising, by granting us peace, freedom from both Heaven and Hell."

"She should beg us for forgiveness," Crowley muttered, but he relaxed a little.

"It doesn't matter. Crowley! You saved the world! You saved _me._" He pulled Crowley closer, resting his head on the demon's thin chest.

"No, angel," Crowley muttered, as Aziraphale snuggled up against him. He remembered Falling. The cold hollowness in his chest, the absence of God's love. The thought that he'd never be loved again. He shivered, despite the warmth of Aziraphale's skin. "You saved me."


End file.
